


Dirty Bits

by goje (surrenderdammit)



Series: Crazy Little Thing Called Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Demisexuality, M/M, PWP, Sexings in the back seat of the car, Sibling Incest, emotions are messy, sex with feelings, shameless porn, this has no redeeming value
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrenderdammit/pseuds/goje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Crazy Little Thing Called Love" universe. Collections of smutty pieces.</p>
<p>“This is hardly the time or place for this discussion, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, sliding after his brother into the expensive, spacey car’s back seat. He was greeted with the glaring light of Sherlock’s mobile phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I can't stay away, so I've given up on being morally sane.
> 
> A difference in writing-style in this one compared to part 1 of the "series". English is still not my first language, the piece has not been proof-read or Brit-picked, and I apologize for any inconvenience. 
> 
> Just...yeah. I'll be in my Shame Corner as usual.

It's the first time they go anywhere together after _it_ happened ( _it_ being the term Mycroft had coined from Sherlock for the first time he fell in bed with his brother), and it's a Christmas get-together at John Watson's (married for little over a year, Mary quite contrary). They woke up in the same bed and showered for longer than necessary; the last few weeks have been quite interesting indeed. Sex in the shower, the couch or even over a sturdy table had simply not factored in pre _-it_.

Truthfully, Mycroft had never felt more than a fleeting interest in sex, and then only what the act would be like. Would his brain still work separately from his body or would they merge? Did he prefer it rough or gentle, with men or women? How many variations had humanity, with its obsession, invented? Of course, once he'd gotten a scope of how vast the subject of sex is, the thought of undergoing the necessary procedures in order to gain a satisfyingly accurate and complete understanding had been entirely unappealing. He'd settled for gathering a compilation of basics before simply nursing a glass of Scotch in his favorite chair at the Diogenes' Club and spending the necessary time calculating his probable responses to a wide variety of situations, taking into account his experiences.

These results had proven to be entirely miscalculated, though the only deviating factor seemed to be Sherlock versus not-Sherlock, which was a curious development that drove his little brother mad with confusion, smugness and possessiveness alternating with pleasure. Although Mycroft had been content with letting the matter lie, Sherlock decidedly was not.

"This is hardly the time or place for this discussion, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, sliding after his brother into the expensive, spacey car's back seat. He was greeted with the glaring light of Sherlock's mobile phone.

" _A_ _person who does not experience sexual attraction until they form a strong emotional connection…_ You only ever picked strangers who had no idea who or what you really are, no time for strong emotional connection! See, _'halfway between' sexual and asexual_. Apparently, it doesn't mean _an incomplete or half-sexuality_ , or that _sexual attraction without emotional connection is required for a complete sexuality..._ Also read, _generally not sexually attracted to anyone of any gender_ ; explains your indifference to gender and being unable to define which you prefer, if you even prefer one at all. However, _when emotionally connected to someone else, experiences sexual attraction and desire, but only towards the specific partner or partners_. That accounts for your interest in me, contra _boring_. So, demisexual!"

Sherlock delivers his diagnosis with smug triumph, flashing his mobile with what he now sees is a wiki article ("It's easiest to google, in case you'd argue") on the subject in front of his face like a license. Mycroft sighs, silently berating himself for not taking into account his little brother's obsessive need to understand everything. When he'd been asked to explain his previous sexual encounters, Mycroft had not expected this outcome. Though the timing and setting was less of a surprise; them being an hour away from a Christmas celebration with Sherlock's morally sound friend who already thought quite little of Mycroft and his part in Sherlock's life (though he only knew the surface of it, of course. He'd never been told about the treasure hunts as children, the scrapped knees and wiping of tears. And he'd never be told of the push and pull of naked flesh between silken sheets.)

"Sexuality is a basic part of human biology," he'd said the day before, stroking his brother's naked spine and only half paying attention to the discussion as he was happily distracted by the smooth skin. "I explored it accordingly; I was indifferent to the subject and although I enjoyed the sexual release it was a simple question of chemical levels in the brain. I narrowed down what was passably enjoyable, pleasing and intriguingly enticing and felt no pressing need to indulge any further."

When Sherlock had demanded how they'd been different, how he'd been different from the _others_ apart from the obvious (he wasn't a stupid, normal, _dull_ person who didn't deserve more than a glance to be seized up and discarded), Mycroft's reply had apparently not been satisfactory.

"It's us, Sherlock. It's you and me. I think it has been proven we fall outside the average and the normal. It hardly matters."

And it really didn't, Mycroft thought as he curled his fingers around Sherlock's thin wrist and gently pushed his hand down, pinning it and the mobile on the seat between them. He didn't care, and maybe that was the problem, because Sherlock evidently did. Or, perhaps, if Sherlock's diagnosis was correct, he simply didn't know _how_ to, no matter the effortless way he could act the part.

He took care to, in that moment, not fall back on the easy way to love his brother, because he was being seized up now and the pulse under his fingertips was racing.

"Your hypothesis," he said, letting the motion of the car's turn slide them closer, "concedes all the major points. I agree."

As Sherlock eyed him suspiciously ("I would never agree with you like this, if I did not meant it"), he leaned in and placed a light kiss on his left brow, lingering to feel it twitch underneath his lips before he ghosted his way to his temple and all the way down to the point of his jaw. Pausing to enjoy the hitch in his breathing, he nipped lightly at the smooth skin there (he'd shaved it for him in the shower, when they'd both been languid from pleasure and heat). The hand clutching the mobile shifted in his grip and he allowed it to slip free to rid them of the phone, welcoming it back by lacing their fingers together and pulling it close to his chest, letting his lips migrate to Sherlock's. They'd both leaned in close, sharing breath now and studying the pores of their skin and speckles of color in their eyes.

"It would be inadvisable to arrive a mess," he murmured against Sherlock's mouth, titling his head slightly to let their noses brush along each other. His brother was panting slightly by now, and oh, how Mycroft was fascinated to note his keen interest in these reactions had not receded one bit since it all began.

"You are despicable," was Sherlock's reply, breathed out like a sigh of defeat but his kiss was anything but; greedy and intense, just like himself. Mycroft's free hand found his brother's sharp hip to cradle, pulling him just a fraction closer even as Sherlock buried fingers in his hair to tug just so. It was breathless and wet, sharp nips of teeth that teased enticing noises from them both. It was a symphony of raw pleasure, if he allowed himself to be sentimental, and with Sherlock he always had been anyway.

"How much time do we have left?" Sherlock asked when his mouth had been abandoned for his neck, the words spoken with urgency and potent lust. Mycroft refrained from chiding him for not knowing, another new development; there apparently was a rather powerful appeal to shut his brother's brain down, one that Sherlock shared in equal measure (body and mind could be reduced to one, and having that focus, which was otherwise on the world around them, turned to their own body was nothing short of staggering). Instead, he untangled them and braced himself against the seat, speaking into the skin of Sherlock's neck.

"Approximately 35 minutes; enough time for me to get down between your knees and suck you off while fucking my own hand, and then have an acceptable amount of time to gather ourselves for an arrival of decency." Taking into account the evening's choice of driver (Johnson) and the state of the traffic so far (proceeding as planned).

"Despicable," Sherlock moaned, letting his legs fall wide open as Mycroft slid down on his knees, hands sliding up tense inner thighs.

"It rather loses its sting when you put it like that," he remarked as he leaned down and in, thumbs stroking in warm circles while Sherlock's legs quivered. He'd barely decided on a course of action (open with his teeth, or hands?) before Sherlock's hands had torn his belt, button and zip open; reaching in to pull himself out. Mycroft was content to watch, one hand now cupping his own still-trapped erection through expensive trousers.

"Hand me a condom, and stroke yourself," he ordered, knowing there was always a package in his brother's wallet nowadays. As Sherlock fumbled to obey, Mycroft freed himself and got three strokes of anticipation in before his brother was leaning down to kiss him, pushing his hands away to roll the condom on for him. In one smooth slide it was secured, a meaningful squeeze at the base of his cock teasing a groan out of him as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the car's floor. With a final nip on Sherlock's lower lip, he guided him to lean back into the leather seat and hummed in pleased approval as his little brother followed eagerly, subtly thrusting his hips upwards in anticipation. The utterly shameless moan which escaped him as Mycroft swallowed him down was completely satisfactory and spurred him on until he'd worked his way down so his nose brushed soft hair. Any mental or physical gag reflex had been eliminated decades ago, being a generally annoying distraction, though Mycroft had dismissed this particular activity being one he'd engage in with that benefit.

"Oh _God_ ," Sherlock breathed, watching with narrowed eyes as his stretched lips slid up again, jaw working carefully around Sherlock's cock as his tongue swirled around the head with maddening precision. Spreading his knees a bit more, Mycroft braced himself before reaching for his brother's hands, placing them on his head and letting them bury into his hair. He went pliant in the steady grip of his brother and with a flicker of his eyes he signaled his permission, humming in approval because he knew very well what it'd do to the younger man.

" _Fuck_ , touch yourself, fucking touch yourself while I fuck your mouth _, oh god_ , so good, you're so good My," spilt from Sherlock's mouth, voice dark and raw with arousal as he seized the opportunity he'd been given by thrusting his prick up while pushing his brother's head down until the tip of his cock rubbed against the back of Mycroft's throat. Body quaking, he set a steady rhythm to the filthy, wet, glucking noises from his brother and his own ragged moans. This act was something which never failed to end him quickly, something Mycroft knew very well and it was no doubt why he'd chosen it for the short time of indulgence they had. It wasn't necessary abusing his brother's mouth until his lips were swollen and sensitive, throat and voice raw of sex, although this would no doubt haunt him for the rest of the evening as he tried to make nice at the ridiculous Christmas gathering. Mycroft knew as well as himself it was more to do with breaking apart under the intense focus of a brilliant mind, fucking into hot, wet submission only to come undone as the scales tipped because it was never an idle submission and they never pretended; it was the perfect balance of Sherlock's exhibitionism and greed versus Mycroft's intense fascination and indulgence.

As it was, Sherlock wouldn't last long; altering between watching himself fuck his brother's face, his own precome smearing swollen lips, and admiring Mycroft's hands cradling his balls while stroking himself off. The exhilarating knot of arousal low in his stomach was pulsing up his spine and heating up his blood, making his limbs jittery and his thrusts desperate and uneven. Mycroft's cheeks were flushed, watching him through hooded eyes, his lips strained and bruised red and hair completely tousled by Sherlock's greedy fingers. His hums and moans of pleasure were muffled by his cock and Sherlock found himself aching to have him come while he was still fucking him. The sudden desire was a sharp, almost painful, stab in his gut.

"Mmm _yes_ ," he hissed as Mycroft picked up on cues he hadn't been aware he was giving, stomach flipping in delight at their easy understanding. "Come for me My, _fuck_ yes!"

It only took a few precise, stroke-twist-pulls and then Mycroft was trembling, definitely choking now as he couldn't control his responses and the relentless thrusting shallowed until he was only sucking on the mushy head of Sherlock's cock, swallowing salty precome. He was shuddering with desire, hips twitching as he filled the condom. His eyes slid close for a moment as he savored the myriad of sensation sex now brought him ( _burning lips, aching throat, stiff jaw; warm, heavy, languid limbs; calm, sated mind_ ), before he snapped them open to focus on his brother writhing in unfulfilled arousal.

Sherlock's sudden desire to have his come flooding Mycroft's mouth until it trickled down his chin was rather obvious in his frantic eyes and quick, heavy pants and so Mycroft swallowed him down again, letting just the hint of teeth tease sensitive skin on his way up. Hands now free to return to Sherlock's trembling thighs, he sought out his heavy balls and fondled them, tracing knuckles down and pressing steadily at the perineum, letting the sounds of sex wash over him in his own sated state.

" _Oh,"_ Sherlock suddenly breathed, eyes wide open as the orgasm struck earlier than planned, having him curled over Mycroft's head as he forced himself as deep as he could go. A short, aborted shout ripped its way through his throat, the feeling of his brother swallowing rapidly around him almost too much to stand. He had to wreck himself free, choking on a sob as he watched his cock slip out and twitch, painting Mycroft's face with a few last spurts of release as the older man panted and licked his abused lips. Slumping back in the seat, Sherlock hummed in sated pleasure, stroking his hands lazily through hair a few shades lighter than his own as he was cleaned up with warm swipes of tongue.

"My turn," Mycroft said, bracing himself on the seat and stretching up to press a light kiss to Sherlock's lips, holding his face there as he waited expectantly. Grinning, Sherlock nipped at a tender lower lip, causing a sharp inhale of breath, before cleaning himself off of his brother's skin with light, swift licks. Already rid of the condom and tucked in, Mycroft rose carefully to relax into the seat beside him, absently straightening his clothes and untangling his hair.

"How much time do we have left?" Sherlock asked, repeating a previous question because he desperately wanted to kiss those lips until Mycroft couldn't stand it anymore but then the swell would never recede to the explainable and even an idiot like Lestrade would know what that mouth had been doing (and Sherlock really needed to stop thinking like that because such ideas appealed to him too much, the exhibitionist not only eager to simply show off but to show off that it was _Mycroft's_ mouth _on him._  That it was _Mycroft_ and _n_ ot a dull, passably intelligent Mary or a giggling, stumbling Molly).

"Enough to be presentable," Mycroft replied, stealing the comb Sherlock had secured in a pocket before they'd left to finish straightening his hair before tackling Sherlock's. Sighing in disgust, Sherlock let him fuss putting him together, if only to enjoy his hands on him for a little while longer before he would sit back and put a distance between them respectable for brothers as he always did when away from the secure walls of his house. It was something Sherlock couldn't bring himself to ask for, that he should stay close a little bit longer, and maybe Mycroft would've picked up on it if he'd been there before, but he hadn't. Impersonal gathering of data had evidently not led to any deeper understanding of a sexual romantic relationship. Sherlock understood it because he had the urges, no matter how well he'd suppressed them over the years they'd still been there when he'd gotten too close, but with his brother the only connection had been Sherlock. It was infinitely more satisfying than annoying, except for times like these.

" _Do you want me to beg for it? For a fucking cuddle? Ridiculous!"_ he thought, huffing. Mycroft raised a brow in genuine inquiry, stroking his hand down Sherlock's arm to catch his hand, threading fingers together and resting it on the seat between them like they had begun the evening's ride.

"What's the extent of activity I can engage in to arrive _presentable?"_ he muttered while tapping the fingers of his free hand against his knee. Intrigued and a little bit amused, Mycroft titled his head.

"Anything that doesn't leave marks or otherwise detectable evidence," was his reply, spoken with a slight tone of question because Sherlock should already know this and if he did and asked anyway, it was redundant, something they simply were not. The most likely reason, based on previous experience, was then that he was silently asking for something he would never voice. He was attempting to work out what it could be this time, when Sherlock suddenly shifted to press himself close to his side and duck his head underneath his chin, cheek resting on his chest.

Ah, well.

Smiling into a mess of curls he'd tried and failed to arrange into something less chaotic, Mycroft lifted their still clasped hands and rested them in his lap.

"Excellent choice."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't do absent minded, and Sherlock doesn't do insecurity. Does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, a warning on this one might be "BEWARE OF THE FLUFF". So, um. Yeah. I've made myself at home in my Shame Corner.

He noticed it because he observed _everything_ about Mycroft when they were together. It had started out as admiration when Sherlock was little, morphed into rivalry and twisted into unconscious obsession by the time he was in his twenties. The confusing mess of emotions his brother inspired in him had kept him on the edge for years, until he’d realized what the root of it all was. Sherlock was in love with his brother, and wasn’t that just typical of them both. 

At this realization, his vision had cleared somewhat and he renewed his observation with startling clarity. It was suddenly important, it was _vital_ , that he understood his brother then. The way Mycroft averted his eyes in a flash of guilt, how his breath hitched when he was cornered and the subtle twitch of his fingers had a meaning with the new context and finally they were kissing, but Sherlock had not anticipated the explosion of their passions colliding. From then on he drank them in, fascinated by how he himself behaved and how he could affect his brother. He’d always been able to get a rise out of him, just as he got under Sherlock’s skin, but after that time things were…different. It was because of this he noticed, that and the slightly disturbing fact that he was enamoured with everything they were (he didn’t know whether he should roll his eyes in amused resignation or gag in disgust at his own sentimentality).

So when Mycroft started absentmindedly (a shock in itself; he just didn’t do absentminded did he?) pressing his lips to his forehead in gentle kisses when he passed him by to make tea - _when he joined him in the bathroom to brush his teeth, when he stole back his phone_ – Sherlock knew this was significant. The forehead kisses had stopped when he was seventeen, when Mycroft undoubtedly first noticed this change between them that took way too long to be resolved. Ever since then their physical relationship had consisted of being in the same room together, or Mycroft holding his hand through withdrawal and brushing his hair out of his eyes when he was too high or dazed to react properly. Up until a few months ago, that is. They were suddenly young brothers again and their affection was simple and easy. John said the three years of being dead must have matured them both, but it went beyond that, of course. Behind closed doors, however, things were a bit more complicated. 

Sherlock had always known he was more tactile than his brother, and the only exception Mycroft did was for his family. While Sherlock had learned the hard way that sometimes when you reach out, you get burned, and had thus endeavoured to become as untouchable as Mycroft, he’d never gotten rid of the undeniable pleasure he eventually felt at affectionate touches. It had a tendency of making things messy, which he was rediscovering at an alarming rate recently. He was treading on a thin line between his own selfish desires and the fear that his greed would finally push away the one person who’d always been there. They had rarely needed to speak of things like boundaries, they could read each other so well and often anticipated the other, and it was clear that outside of Mycroft’s safe zones (his home, his cars, his office, and his club) they were only brothers, not lovers. It was driving Sherlock mad, because they just needed to be careful (people would see but they wouldn’t observe), it had so much potential, and it was thrilling in a way. Everything was at stake, but they wouldn’t lose.  Alone they were brilliant and together they were extraordinary; the world wouldn’t stand a chance.

If only Mycroft would recognize this, but no, there was more to it than that. He just wasn’t sure _what_ , and that scared him because if he couldn’t see it then how was he supposed to know what to do? He had to figure this out, before he made a mistake that could ruin them (he knew he was greedy, but he had never been good with self-restraint and Mycroft _knows_ this but still he allows him to stand a fraction too close and it’s so _frustrating)_. He should have anticipated it would drive him to do something _stupid_ ; it always did, with Mycroft. But emotions clouded one’s judgment, and he’d never been very rational when it comes to his brother in the first place. Which was probably why he’d said “Okay”, draped over Mycroft with his nose pressed against his neck (he smells safe and warm and it’s intoxicating in moments like these;  limp and languid from sex and completely satisfied in an endorphin high).

He didn’t take note of the silence that followed his agreement, not until Mycroft shifted underneath him to sit up against the headboard and stare. Sherlock huffed in annoyance, settling down with his head on Mycroft’s chest and arms tights around his stomach.

“Why did you move, I was comfortable,” he grumbled, nipping at the skin available and enjoying the flinch and hitch of breath in startled pleasure/pain that always followed. Mycroft buried his hand in his curls and tugged in retribution, which only served to make Sherlock latch on to the same piece of skin and work to make a vivid, red mark.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he hissed in warning, making Sherlock grin as he let go to soothe the skin with his tongue.

“Humph.” He resettled against him, breathing in and enjoying the gentler rhythmic tugging at his hair when Mycroft spoke again. “Why did you agree?” And he wasn’t sure, but he had agreed, and he wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t go through with it after all. That was disconcerting in itself, and so it wasn’t that strange when Mycroft’s frown matched his own.

“I’ve been making varied versions of that offer since you were eighteen, and this is the first time you’ve ever expressed anything other than vehement rejection of the idea,” he pointed out, brow raised in enquiry. “I am, naturally, curious what has changed your mind, my dear. Tell me.”

Sherlock bit his lip in frustration. “I am not sure.” It was hard to admit, he had a knee-jerk reaction to admitting ignorance in the face of his brother, but it was more unsettling to actually not know (and the blow was significantly softened by the fact that he had his arms and legs wrapped around the same very naked, very distracting brother).

They were silent for a few moments before Mycroft shifted in his grip and hummed in thought. “What has changed? What about moving or renovating your current haunt and get a permanent side-job has become tolerable?” he wondered in amusement, making Sherlock poke him hard in the ribs in annoyance.

“Maybe because I did accidentally wreck the kitchen ceiling and Mrs. Hudson hasn’t found out yet, and because this time it’s a _side-_ job rather than an attempt to place me permanently behind a desk,” Sherlock scowled in reply, rolling off of him to glare at the ceiling. He ignored Mycroft’s amused snort, and the sensation of him moving down the bed beside him. Propping his head up on his hand, Mycroft leaned on his elbow and looked down at him with a small smile.

“I don’t think that’s it,” he said, reaching down to trace his fingers along the edge of the sheet that had slipped down Sherlock’s hips. “Did you know, I never actually expected you to accept my offers?”

Turning to face him, Sherlock frowned. “Then why did you keep at it? That’s redundant and you know it.”

Mycroft hummed, tracing up and down Sherlock’s stomach before resting his hand on his hip. “I used it to gauge your mindset,” he paused to smirk, pinching Sherlock lightly, “The more creatively you told me to sod off, the more determined you were to sort yourself out on your own. Of course, at times I had to interfere nonetheless, regardless of your vivid imagination on where I could stuff it.”

Catching his brother’s wandering hand, Sherlock wondered what it said about his mindset when he’d agreed, but couldn’t bring himself to voice it. Tugging him closer, Sherlock kissed the thoughtful twist of his brother’s mouth, licking and nibbling at his lips until they parted with a pleased sigh. Mycroft’s tongue was gentle against his, his teeth teasing as Mycroft rolled them over to pin him down. Letting a pleased growl escape, Sherlock arched into him and spread his legs to make place for the warm body above him. Mycroft rarely took on an aggressive role, though he could be frustratingly playful and maddeningly docile, and the sharp nips along his jaw down his throat signalled he was in the mood of the former.  But both never failed to drive Sherlock wild, feeding his possessive passions and making him determined to have his brother want him more, until there was nothing else, and it was scary how strongly it moved him. Mycroft had never hesitated to use it to his advantage, as was evident in how he was currently caressing him with his whole body, writhing on top of him and letting his mouth be possessed with all the passion he was so good at receiving but still unable to match in its intensity.

“I will never leave you unless you want me to,” he murmured against Sherlock’s cheek when he let him up for air. “And even then, I won’t be far off. I’m much too selfish to ever let go of you completely. You know this.” 

Thrown, Sherlock tightened his grip on his brother’s hips and breathed hard. “What are you—“, he began, breathless, but Mycroft cut him off by nipping at the tip of his nose, making him huff in annoyance. 

“You said yes because you thought of moving, not to a new flat, but to _here_. You thought taking a side-job would please me, even if you would no doubt walk out on it after perhaps a month,” Mycroft said, placing small kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, “The reason you were contemplating going against your desire for the security of being independent by having a place of your own, and working with what engages you in all the ways you need, would perhaps in this instance be _in_ security. Why, Sherlock? What could _possibly_ \---“

“—I’m not _insecure,”_ he snapped, feeling his cheeks heat and he pushed at his brother’s shoulders until he relented and rolled them over. Straddling his hips, Sherlock glared down at Mycroft’s exasperated but indulging expression.

“Sherlock—“

“— _No!_ It’s…” he trailed off, flustered and not liking it. He wanted to say it was nothing, but Mycroft would never let a lie like that slide, not here. And he already knew, the bastard. He could see it in the thin line of his lips and the dark look in his eyes. “Don’t make me say it, Mycroft. Just don’t.” 

Familiar hands stroked up his thighs, the motion gentle and calming if not for the light drag of nails which sent a shiver down his spine. “All right,” Mycroft said quietly, applying more pressure as he scratched almost invisible lines along Sherlock’s skin. “Come here, then.” And Sherlock let himself be pulled down, sealing their lips together eagerly as he felt his desire flare up in a blaze. Mycroft was soft and pliant underneath him, and the pleased noises he made as Sherlock kissed and caressed had the quality of surprised fascination they always carried (he was always so intrigued by what Sherlock could do to him, what they made each other feel, and it made Sherlock lose himself all the more in their passions). 

“Mmm, yes,” Mycroft sighed in response to Sherlock’s lips working their way down his neck and across his chest, leaving marks as he went. Sherlock could almost hear him calculating how to best hide the most daring ones (one placed just at the edge of where his crisp and clean shirt-collar would be) and bit just a little bit harder, enjoying how his brother arched into his attentions. It was delicious, he noted, licking a hipbone cushioned just so by warm flesh before swallowing his brother’s semi-hard prick down in one smooth motion. 

“Sherlock!” he gasped, hands burying themselves in his hair to caress rather than tug, and Sherlock moaned in approval, staring intently at the look on this brother’s face. Moving his tongue around as he sucked, Sherlock didn’t relent until his prick was throbbing hard in his mouth and the taste and smell of pre-come teased his senses. He let it slip out with a wet plop, groaning at the memory of a reversed situation (fucking his brother’s mouth were one of his favourite things, fucking it until his lips were swollen and his throat was raw).

“Up,” Mycroft panted, licking his lips invitingly and wriggling down a bit and Sherlock’s breath caught. “Get up here, and I’ll suck you.”

“Can’t,” he groaned and nibbled at Mycroft’s inner thigh, nuzzling him as if in an apology (and oh he was sorry indeed, but if he straddled his chest and let him suck him now he wouldn’t be able to stop). “I want to fuck you.” Breathed against Mycroft’s thigh it was just barely audible, but his brother’s moan of approval and how he spread his legs in obvious agreement made it clear Sherlock wouldn’t have to repeat himself.

Licking his way to the base of Mycroft’s cock, he took a hold of it and stroked slowly, dipping down to mouth at his balls and inhale the enticing smell of his brother’s musk and sex. By now Mycroft was panting slightly, and as he titled his hips for access and Sherlock breathed against his entrance, so close, he moaned his name like a curse.

Slipping a finger down to trace around the ring of muscles, Sherlock rested his cheek against Mycroft’s thigh (not far from the mark he’d left) and breathed in shakily. “You’re still so open for me, My. I fucked you well, didn’t I? God, you’re a mess down here.” He wanted to mess him up even more, fill him up with more lube and semen and have his skin covered with a fine sheen of sweat, his hair sticking up in silly places and cheek red and raw from the fiction of being repeatedly rubbed against the sheets as he fucked him hard. Pressing two fingers inside of him easily, Sherlock listened to his moans and breaths and hummed in pleasure, slipping a third inside after a few quick, efficient thrusts.

“You can take me, can’t you?” he whispered, looking up his brother’s slightly arched body and meeting his eyes, pupils blown wide in arousal. Mycroft thrust against him in response, smirking and looking delectably wanton, an entirely seductive contradiction of the pristine, three-piece suit governmental official he was _outside._ Sitting up, Sherlock slipped his fingers out of him and pushed at his legs. “I want you on your knees, My,” he breathed, settling back on his legs as he watched his brother reposition himself with smooth but eager movements. It was an arousing sight, to say the least. Reaching out, Sherlock caressed the upturned arse, grabbing the flesh and massaging in circles to watch the reddened entrance flash before him. At Mycroft’s sigh, Sherlock grinned, moving closer to grind his flushed prick against his cleft and press a hand on the curved back before him. Mycroft went down easily, arms giving out under him and cheek pressed against the pillow.

“Lube,” Sherlock murmured, hips undulating between Mycroft’s cheeks as his brother stretched out to comply, fishing the almost empty tube out from somewhere under the pillows to hand it over. Flipping it open, Sherlock squeezed out a generous amount of the cream before he capped it and disposed it somewhere to his right. 

“You should see yourself,” he said, stroking his cock and spreading the lube, catching some on his other hand’s fingers to circle Mycroft’s hole. He chuckled breathlessly in reply, wriggling at the attention. “I’m not as enamoured in myself as you.” Sherlock lined himself up and shuddered, trying not to think of how true his brother’s words were even as he pressed inside tight heat. 

“Still,” he groaned, bottoming out and pausing to enjoy the feel of his brother around him, biting his lip to prevent himself from moving before he was ready to deal with the sensations of fucking him. “It’s quite a view, my prick buried in your arse.” This got him the desired response; Mycroft pushing himself further into his hips, breathing his name and an eager agreement. 

Pulling out, Sherlock’s breath hitched in pleasure and he only paused for a moment to admire the view before snapping his hips and burying himself again. Setting a hard, even rhythm, he let the noise of skin slapping against skin and the breath being forced out of Mycroft’s lungs wash over him, exciting him further. His grip of his brother’s hips helped adding to the force, and he could see what bruises would form within the hour. It had him swirling his hips, playing with the angle until he was thrusting inside of him _just so_ , and Mycroft was reduced to clawing at the sheets and making aborted moans as his breath left him. 

“You feel so good, My,” Sherlock groaned, kneading the skin in his hands and digging his nails in, panting and losing himself in the sensations. 

“Yes, yes, _harder_. Oh--!” came from beneath him, muffled by the pillow Mycroft was being pushed into relentlessly, cut off by Sherlock draping himself along his back and reaching for his straining prick, smearing pre-come down the length.

“Making you come a second time won’t be hard, will it, brother?” Sherlock panted in his ear, nipping his earlobe before kissing his cheek and flicking his tongue out to catch a sweat drop trailing down from his temple. “It’s amazing what I can do to you, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock, oh god, yes,” Mycroft moaned, wriggling underneath him and reaching around to take a hold of his neck to pull him closer until his nose was buried in his neck, “you’re amazing, of course you are. _Amazing_.” 

His rhythm faltered in response, his breath hitching as he latched onto the place shoulder and neck met, biting and sucking the umpteenth mark onto his brother’s skin (he’ll count them when they’re finished and pick his favourites, and he’ll chose which to renew and keep, like the one on his hipbone and the one at his left wrist covered by cuff and watch).

“My,” he whimpered, having lost his rhythm but not caring at this point, simply losing himself entirely in his brother’s pliant, heated body and snapping his hips fast and hard. Using what little leverage he had, Mycroft met him eagerly, biting into the pillow underneath him to muffle his groans. There was an _I love you_ somewhere between them but it was stating the obvious at this point, but the kisses became more eager and the whispers softer as they pulled each other closer to the edge for a spectacular fall. 

“Come for me,” Sherlock gasped, feeling the familiar tingling along his spine signalling he didn’t have long, “Don’t—no pillow—want to hear.”

Nodding, Mycroft panted in little gasps and moans, twisting the sheets in his hands and pushing back against him. “Almost there, darling, almost,” he groaned and Sherlock squeezed his cock in encouragement, causing him to shudder beneath him. “Oh, _yes!_ ” A few more strokes and he was shaking and arching in his hold, hissing his name between clenched teeth and soaking his hand with hot come. He was clenching and trembling around him, stimulating Sherlock’s prick with maddening efficiency. Six more thrusts and he was coming as well, the soft body under him open and warm.

“ _Oh_ , oh Mycroft,” he moaned, burying himself to the hilt as he twitched and trembled, filling Mycroft up and pulling pleased noises from him as he nuzzled against his neck and breathed in sweat and shampoo and cologne. “You feel so good,” he whispered, lowering himself on him for a moment, staying inside as he softened and caught his breath.

“Mm, stay,” Mycroft sighed, sounding as well fucked as he felt, and Sherlock managed a weak chuckle before giving up on anything but simply breathing and enjoying the afterglow of weak limbs and sated bodies. 

“We’re not done, you know,” he said after a while, slightly breathless still because of the added weight of Sherlock. “I’ll deal with you when I can walk and talk properly.”

Snorting, Sherlock bit his shoulder blade. He was under no illusions of his brother’s persistence. 

“You’ll make it look like I’ve got some kind of skin disease, “ Mycroft commented idly, obviously amused but the small smile on his face softened the supposed mockery. Sherlock hummed, talking into his skin. “That reminds me, I’ll have to count them when you’ve recovered, old man.”

“Old man? You little brat,” he snorted, elbowing him in the ribs until he rolled off, slipping out on his way and making them both groan. “I would get you for that, but sleeping seems like such a more appealing option.”

“You can’t fall asleep yet,” Sherlock grumbled, moving to manhandle his brother onto his back, tracing a line of love bites along his collarbone. “One, two, three...”

“That’s four, actually; you did this one twice.” Mycroft’s hand was soft around his, eyes smiling at him. “If you’re going to do it, do it properly. You wouldn’t want to miss something, if you’re going to pick a favourite.”

“You’re insufferable,” Sherlock muttered, but continued, trailing finger over sensitive skin and replaying the memories of travelling it with lips and teeth and tongue.

“Pot, kettle.”

“Oh shut up.”

In the end, he decided on the hipbone, shoulder, the double-one on the collarbone, the inner thigh, the wrist and underneath the navel. Mycroft vetoed the one at the base of his neck he’d have to cover up with make-up, but otherwise approved, if only to have the poking and probing stop so he could sleep. Sherlock might have dragged it out a bit longer than necessary, but he didn’t doubt his brother would get back at him soon enough. He’d deal with it in the morning.    

 


End file.
